


black and deep desires

by flibbityflob



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: feralgrid, it's ingrid going feral and killing people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23738509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flibbityflob/pseuds/flibbityflob
Summary: fódlan, guardian moon, imperial year 1184, a field somewhere in faerghusingrid brandl galatea has fled the ranks of the kingdom army and fights alone for the sake of ideals she barely remembers herself.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	black and deep desires

ingrid doesn’t notice the snow at first, it falls so softly that it melts in her exhaled breath. this particular winter has been harsh anyway, so much so that the lack of snow was almost more shocking than the fall. the moment the snow starts falling harder, though, sticking to the cold metal of her armour, sticking on the ground, she notices it. she watches it fall, her eye barely focused, rather it looks halfway between the fire and her nose, and on nothing at all. lúin sits, softly humming, the snow melting before it even lands on the length of the head. the cold doesn’t bother her, it never has, it may seep into her skin but it doesn’t reach her core. it doesn’t burrow into what’s left of her heart, hardened by years of faerghus winters, hardened by all she’s seen. a weapon doesn’t get cold. lúin burns brightest in the winter, it always has, it seems to be more alive than ever these days. in some ways, this cursed relic has become her only companion. the only companion that truly understands her. kyphon, trustworthy gentle kyphon, knows a different girl. a different woman. lúin is hers.

her ears prick up at the sound of voices. the night has set in far too much for festivities, there are none this time of year anyway. nobody in villages like the one ingrid watches tonight has either the money or the spirits. the war has hit them hard. so she listens, hard, intent. there’s too much joy in their voices for it to be anything but bandits, riding high on the glee of a successful mission. scum, the lot of them. she may be less than human, a beast wearing armour, but the last of her morals keep her apart from these parasites. there is no honour in death, or in victory, but there is a kind of chivalry in tearing these monsters apart and making them feel even an inch of the terror their victims must have felt. with enough blood, enough violence, she can shed the last vestiges of her humanity and be the beast the goddess has already deemed her to be. she holds onto it with the last string of spite, a curse directed at the goddess and the world, daring them to do with her what they will. 

her eye struggles with depth perception in the daylight, and when the only light she has is the gentle flickering of a slowly dying campfire, she struggles to reach her sword. in battle, combat like this, it is an extension of her arm, in the same way lúin is when she fights atop kyphon. perhaps it is the goddess laughing at her spite. she doesn’t care either way. after enough attempts it is held in her hand, still bloody and still as sharp as claws. she trudges gently, her footprints being drowned by the snow as soon as she makes them. disturbing these bastards is the last thing she wants to do. letting them know she’s there lets them get away. and they don’t deserve that kindness, they deserve only what the world should have delivered to them long ago. their joy turns her stomach, and she can smell the blood and the booze mixing in the air, and she feels the rage settle in her stomach. her leg drags a little, it has done so for a month since she took a fall and did something to it. she can still walk. it doesn’t hurt any more. it never hurt to begin with, pain is not something she registers any more. or perhaps it is all she feels. there is not much difference, in the end. 

she approaches their camp, or whatever they might call it. it is hardly a camp, four tents placed nearby a campfire, with little protecting them from the cold and the storm. perhaps they’ve noticed the wolves don’t prowl here any more, perhaps that keeps them safe. the wolves have found a more plentiful hunting ground and now, only ingrid remains. she squints slightly, making out the bodies of at least seven men. probably eight or nine, though, there seem to be that many horses and that many swords. she trudges a little closer, her foot threatening to catch on a loose branch. 

her hand settles on her sword, takes it from its sheath and holds it in one hand, the other holding it straight. she steps forward, and makes eye contact with whatever man they’ve set to keep watch. he barely has any time to scream before the expertly crafted blade sinks through his tunic, driving through what some men might call the heart, what ingrid knows is a husk. he falls to the ground with a thud, just as his comrades turn to look at ingrid. she lets out a soft growl, perhaps without meaning to, and raises her sword once more.

“w- what is it you want? money? we have money, you can have it all if you just-” one bandit starts, before another, their leader, silences him. he smirks as he stares into her eye, looking her for just a second too long.

“harald was blind and stupid to have missed you, boy. just leave. you’re a dead man if you don’t get out of here right now.” he says, and moves his hand to rest atop his scabbard.

ingrid only growls as she steps forward. these men might outnumber her, but she is more skilled than any one of them could ever dream to be, and she cuts one man down as he charges her, the blade sinking through his shoulder blade as if it were nothing. a third man charges at her, rage in his eyes, and ingrid almost laughs at him, dodges his first strike with ease and smashes his face in with the pommel of her sword. he falls to the ground, hitting it with a pitiful thump. the leader of this group of monsters stares at her, as the three remaining members circle her, clearly possessing a touch more strategy in their minds than their fallen companions. it takes little effort, however, to strike the first down when he leaves his side open, for a second she almost hears professor byleth screaming at another version of herself to keep her guard up, but she bats the thought away. the professor taught a girl who died years ago. who perhaps never existed in the first place. the last two put up a degree more of a fight than their comrades, blocking her strikes, but it is clear the booze has their defences lowered, has their strikes weaker and more feeble, less determined. 

the first man slips slightly, his reactions and his functions slowed and dulled, and she cleaves through him before he has a chance to strike back. the second man, foolish and human and weak, takes just a second too long in a moment of grief at his fallen friend, and before he notices it, ingrid’s sword has driven through him too. she stares, her face and armour coated in blood and sweat and snow, and the leader’s eyes change from delight to true horror. all ingrid can do is scoff at his weakness, and can’t resist the urge to laugh as he slowly backs away from her. she stalks towards him, and he trips like the pathetic fool he is. she raises her sword and cleaves his head clean from his body. quick and painless. she’s in too foul a mood tonight to make any of this last longer than it should. 

she spits blood onto the ground and staggers away, takes whatever money she finds on their corpses and pockets it. the village will need it. these villages always need money. the living need money more than the dead. as she reaches her campfire, lúin's horrifying glow a beacon through the thick sheet of snow that falls in front of her face now, she collapses onto the ground, lets exhaustion take her. she will be awake soon enough, there is no silence in her mind any more, sleep keeps her more fraught and exhausts her more than the waking hours do.

**Author's Note:**

> feralgrid is absolutely NOT my creation, that goes to @cowboy_sneep and @jireemblem on twitter! i just love this girl and love making her feral and nasty, and that's my right!


End file.
